Bandaged
by SkyKissed
Summary: Taylor should be out there, searching for Mira's mole and yet here he is, system full of pain meds, fumbling with his bandages. Wash arrives to offer a much needed hand. Wash/Taylor, post Nightfall.


A/N: No, seriously, Wash got all fussy over a tiny nick on Taylor's face, you think she isn't gonna come running after he's been SHOT? (Also…I may have just wanted an excuse to get them to be snuggly…) I'm honestly not sure about this one since it's….a bit different style wise than I'm comfortable with. And it has the potential to be egregiously out of character…

So yeah. Here goes nothing! A missing scene for the end of Nightfall.

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><p><strong>Bandaged<strong>

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><p>Being shot he can handle. Hell, he's been bludgeoned, burned, perforated, electrocuted, poisoned, and a variety of other unpleasant things, and withstood them all with enviable aplomb. What he cannot, and will not, stand is to be cooped up like some invalid while the fate of his colony is in the balance. He should be out there, searching for Mira's mole and yet here he is, system full of pain meds, fumbling with his bandages.<p>

A crossbow bolt to the shoulder, nothing life threatening, or at least that's what he'd tried to explain to Shannon's wife. The woman had favored him with a look that broached no room for argument. He _would_ stay home. And he _would_ take his meds, change his bandages, _ladeedadee_.

He sighs, takes a shot of whiskey (which, admittedly, he should not be drinking), and tries another time to clean the ugly gash. It's only the soft sound of boots approaching that steals him from his frustrating task.

Lieutenant Washington clears her throat to announce her presence. It's redundant, really. She's one of the few people he permits to call on his personal quarters. He acknowledges her with a simple nod of the head.

"I'll admit, sir, I didn't expect to find you here." But she had been hoping.

"Doctors orders," he grumbles, finishing his drink. Dr. Shannon has a way about her that he prefers not to cross. It's gentle and mothering, yes, but there's something, maybe in the way she speaks or hidden in her eyes, that says she isn't one to play nice when push comes to shove. When his second does not enter or offer to lend him a hand he casts her an arch look, "You just gonna stand there, lieutenant? Get over here."

Wash leans against the doorframe, one brow quirked, her lips lightly pursed, a subtle change in her tone and posture alluding to her frustration. It's a look reserved solely for him, usually when they are alone and she can afford to be more…he hesitates to use the word "insubordinate" and quickly substitutes it with "herself." She sighs heavily, crossing the distance between them to settle beside him on the couch, taking the gauze from his hands. He's better at acquiring, and inflicting, injuries than treating them, a fact they are both intimately familiar with.

She's far less gentle than she usually is, applying a liberal amount of antiseptic and scrubbing more than dabbing his shoulder. It's only when he winces slightly that she softens; the delicate brush of her thumb against his reddened skin the closest thing she'll offer to an apology. His continued silence marks his acceptance. They each fall back into the patterns they've agreed upon over the years, roles best suited to their silent dispositions. She'll always disapprove when he throws himself into danger; he'll remain confident she'll be there to patch him up after the fact.

His lieutenant traces the tear in his flesh idly. His armor managed to absorb the better part of the damage but the majority of the blood vessels are broken, the area an angry shade of purple. Seeing it, her lips tighten to a thin line.

"It could have been worse, Wash," he offers, his voice uncharacteristically soft. For a hardened soldier it's amusing how…_prickly,_ she gets over even the slightest injury to his person.

It isn't enough to assuage her. She tosses her head, her eyes hard, "Next time it might be."

"There won't be a next time." Because next time it'll be war, and a wound like this will be trivial in comparison.

The smile that twists her lips is an ugly thing, a mimicry of mirth tainted by irritation and determination, a loathing she doesn't bother trying to conceal, "Mira better pray that's true." He knows men, strong men, who would flinch under the force of her gaze in that moment. "Because the next time something like this happens, I'm taking the bitch's head off." And she will. If it gets her riddled with bullets, so be it. In that regard, Wash is something of a hypocrite. She'll fuss over him; she'll subtly implore him to stay out of the field. Seeing him wounded breaks down those carefully erected barriers she's placed around herself.

But she'll just as readily throw herself into the thick of things without pausing to consider whether or not her own well being might be important. That seeing her bleeding is just as distracting to him. She'll sacrifice herself without a second thought if she thinks it might preserve him.

They share a glance and agree, wordlessly, to drop the subject.

She unrolls the gauze, leaning towards him to wrap it around his back. It brings them dangerously close to one another, her arms around him in a half embrace. Her hair smells pleasantly of some flowery shampoo as it brushes his neck, almost too feminine to justify with the stony faced creature treating his injuries. From the set of her jaw, her frustration remains.

It's the pain meds, undoubtedly, but he wraps his arms around her, holding her lightly to his chest. She needs it, even if she won't (and she _never_ will) admit it, this offering of assurance that he is still alive and well. Wash tenses, every muscle in her body suddenly rigid. Her breath catches, she stops. It makes him chuckle. Definitely the meds.

"Sir…?"

"Ease up, Wash. Sixer's aren't going to come rushing the gates just because you let yourself relax a second."

It takes a long moment but eventually she does, even if it's only because she's under orders. She leans her head against his own, her tension ebbing until she's nearly slack against him. It's comfortable, it's easy. And, while it's not the first time they've shared something like this, there's a novelty to it. There's a moment of shared understanding, where she permits her guard to drop, and they accept the comfort offered as friends rather than soldiers. It says, despite whatever's happened, they're both still alive.

Neither is particularly open to such displays, and so later both will makes excuses for the perceived weakness (meds for him, an amalgamation of relief and exhaustion for her). She squeezes him gently; lingering perhaps a moment too long for propriety, leans back and returns to her original task. Once finished, she pats his arm, scooting back a bit.

Taylor notes, with no small amount of amusement, and some dark fascination, that their brief embrace has stained Wash's own shoulder, leaving a smear of crimson dangerously near her heart. There's a certain poetic justice to it and so he does not comment. She meets his gaze, her features softening immeasurably, and does not wipe the liquid away. After so many years she's certainly accustomed to being covered in his blood.

They are comfortable with silence, but he speaks, "Want a drink?"

The disapproval returns to her tone, a gentle warning, "You shouldn't be drinking."

"I shouldn't do a lot of things, Wash." But it's never stopped him, has it?

It's all he needs to say. Her chiding rarely finds success when it comes to him, and her nerves are too frayed to protest more vigorously. She takes the drink from his grasp, their fingers brushing, finishes it and returns the empty glass. It earns her a chuckle. Wash is the perfect companion for these sort of things; silent, thoughtful, capable of drinking a man under the table. What more could he ask for?

There are other things she should be doing (running Terra Nova in his absence, paperwork…) and he should be resting (god save him if Shannon found out). By some silent accord, they choose to forget those things. He leans back and she moves closer to him, till her right side and his left are flush against each other. He pours her another drink and she accepts, though she knows she shouldn't. It's comfortable, it's easy. It'll be written off later, yes, but for the time being, they revel in the fact they have both survived another battle relatively unscathed.

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><p>Glack…gross, writing…serious things…I sense I need to write something cracky to atone…<p>

Perhaps involving Taylor and bubblebath…Yeah. That sounds about right. xD


End file.
